Why Do Some Not Like Fantasy? Also, An Excerpt From The Oerken Leaves

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If you ask the question “Do you like fantasy novels?” you’re going to get a variety of answers. Those who don’t like to read may ask, what is a fantasy novel? They are to be pitied. But for the rest of us who do like to read, there is a wide response. At one end of the spectrum, there are some who can’t get enough of fantasy. But at the other end, there are those who absolutely loathe fantasy.

The fantasy-loathers may not be able to say precisely why, but it probably comes down to viewing fantasy as merely make-believe, and the protestor prefers a story whose setting is in this world. The story doesn’t have to be true, just realistic and believable. Fantasy is neither, he says. I wonder if the same person ever liked the story of The Three Little Pigs or Little Red Riding Hood as a child, and if so, what happened to him? When or why did he fall away from this youthful pleasure? True, as one gets older (I’ve had over sixty years experience in that area), one’s taste changes, and literary preferences are no exception. But usually a change in taste does not mean an abandonment but rather a refinement.

I don’t get excited over The Three Little Pigs much anymore myself (except when reading the story to a little one, which is an interesting phenomenon itself), but I still like fantasy. J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit was my first introduction (as it should be) to the realm of Middle Earth, and I was absolutely delighted. I was such a fan of Bilbo that when he took a rather insignificant role in The Lord of the Rings, I was very disappointed, if not a bit miffed with Tolkien. It took about the whole first book of The Fellowship of the Ring before I began to warm up to Frodo.

So why does the world of Bilbo and Frodo have such an appeal to me? Is it not just make-believe, after all? Except for allowing one to ‘escape’ and let his imagination go (which perhaps makes the fantasy-loather a little suspect in the imagination department), what use is it? I have to admit that the imagination factor is a big plus for me, but there is still something else that charms me.

I like fantasy because it ingeniously portrays reality.

“Uhmmm,” the fantasy-loather murmurs, a slight frown rippling across his eyebrows, “isn’t that contradictory; fantasy portrays reality?”

“Yes,” I say, “fantasy portrays reality. Look at the greedy, schizophrenic Gollum.”

Turns out that in Gollum’s case, the greed and schizophrenia go hand in hand, and though I’m not a psychologist, I’ll bet there is a basis for that in this world. Gollum’s mental, psychological, emotional, and physical decline are blended so well together, that the whole picture tells us something about where such greed leads us. It is a dehumanizing process that blurs and contorts the image of God. Even if Tolkien didn’t have that in mind, the fantasy world itself had an intrinsic force (not to mention Tolkien’s genius) that allowed the truth about greed to strike us powerfully. I really, really get that when I see Gollum.

It is suggestive of what Paul writes: “For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil, for which some have strayed from the faith in their greediness, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows” (1 Timothy 6:10, NKJV).

And of Solomon: “So are the ways of everyone who is greedy for gain; It takes away the life of its owners” (Proverbs 1:19, NKJV).

Well, enough of this for now. Next time, I’d like to talk about this as it relates to The Oerken Leaves. In anticipation of that, here is an excerpt:

Note: Brutus, the bad guy, arrived in a new world a few days previously and was held at Yellow House, the governor’s mansion. He escaped and is on the run, trying to get to a place called Ferguson Farm. After a little visit in a nearby town, he is now walking on a trail that will take him to a neighboring town, Puddle Bottom West, where he can catch the ‘magnerail’ all the way to Kittanning and the farm.


Brutus was making good time. The trail was easily traversed and at the pace he was keeping he would be in Puddle Bottom West in thirty minutes or less. He met no one coming or going. After ten minutes he came by a pool of water about thirty feet across which was remarkably clear and clean. Brutus tossed in a stone, and it fell to the bottom so quickly that the pool appeared to be only a few feet deep.



Brutus thrust in his walking stick and indeed it struck the bottom with only half the stick submerged. The bottom of the pool was not at all muddy but hard like stone and blue like the sky. There were a few large rocks jutting out of the water near the center of the pool. Lily pads idly floated here and there and the grassy banks came down to the edge of the water. Except for these, Brutus might have thought the pool was built by the city or perhaps by those who sponsored the walking trail.


He squatted down and put his hand in the water. It was cool but not chilly. Brutus took a handful of water and splashed it over his face. It felt very good. He reached in again scooping out enough with both hands to refresh himself with a few swallows. Brutus reached in a third time and was startled by a disturbance of the water near the bank on the far side. Something had clambered out of the pool and was slowly dragging itself up the bank. It was a large reddish-brown lizard.


Brutus quickly pulled his hand out of the water and fell backward. With dread, he glanced to his left and right to spot anything along the water’s edge that might resemble the creature on the far bank.


A shadow passed over the pool. Brutus looked up, and in the expanse above that little body of water he saw a dark, gloomy sky that harbored pale, gray clouds. To be sure, the sun was soon to set but this should have made the sky, if anything, pink. Brutus lowered his gaze back to the water. The pond had changed.


A chill swept over Brutus. The air was considerably cooler; actually, it was chilled, as if the door of a deep freezer the size of the sky opened from above. There was no wind, no rustling of leaves or branches. Just stillness, like a cold wintry forest plunged into deep silence where no living animal moved or bird took flight.


Brutus began to shiver. The air frosted his breath as it billowed from his nose and mouth. Only the pond escaped the freeze. It sloshed with a repulsive, muddy liquid at the bottom of which Brutus imagined nasty, slimy creatures. Here and there a bubble rose to the surface and ejected a stinking vaporous fume into the air.


Brutus sat on the bank surrounded by stench and gloom. There was no place to go, no rock to hide under, no hole to climb into. Brutus earnestly wanted to get to his feet and run from that cursed place, but he couldn’t.


Then, without warning, a suggestion formed in Brutus’s mind. He was urged, as if by an inner voice, to move closer to the lizard. This fancy, so utterly illogical, and yet unexplainably logical, grew stronger and stronger until it gave way to desire.


Brutus got to his hands and knees and began to crawl slowly along the bank above the murky pool. The lizard continued to fix its gaze on Brutus as it gradually turned its head and eyes to follow his movement. Brutus crawled a dozen feet or so when the reptile unexpectedly began to push itself slowly along the top of the bank toward him. A fearful chill struck Brutus making the back of his neck prickle. He halted his movement but the lizard continued to edge closer, slowly, smoothly, ever keeping its eyes fixed on Brutus.


The lizard had moved to within a few yards and stopped. Over the barren, frosty, tundra of the pond’s bank, no sound was heard except the soft cracking sound of the willowy tongue whipping in and out of the lizard’s mouth.


Brutus extended his hand toward the lizard. The beast stood still for a moment and then pushed itself once more. It moved now to within inches of Brutus’s hand. It edged closer and closer, the snaky tongue all the while softly slapping the air. Brutus stretched out the back of his hand to within an inch of the creature’s slippery tongue. Without breath, he continued to stretch it closer and closer until he came to feel the disturbance of the air against his skin.


Then the tongue struck. The moment contact was made, a loud, snapping, cracking noise like an electric spark pierced the air. A fiery, stinging sensation seared the back of his hand. Brutus involuntarily jerked it away and fell on his side. With his eyes closed and knees curled to his chest, Brutus cradled his hand and wailed. The stinging was intense. The pain deepened and his hand swelled as Brutus writhed on the ground. Out of desperation he dragged himself to the edge of the pool and plunged his arm deep into the foul water.


Astonishingly, there was relief. Not complete relief, but relief nonetheless. Brutus did not dare pull out his arm and held the wounded flesh there for a considerable while. After a time, the pain became bearable and Brutus ventured to withdraw his hand and arm.


Water dripped in big, stinking, gray drops. The hand itself was only slightly swollen now. Brutus held it up in front of his face, and he saw a red circular welt about the size of a dime. The red spot was extremely sensitive and Brutus dared not to touch it.


In all of his pain and bellowing Brutus had clean forgotten about the creature. He was facing away from the spot where the wretched beast had lain when it stung him. Brutus reeled around with his fists clenched, but the reptile was gone. He surveyed the immediate area, but there was no sign of it. The little beast had stung him and lumbered away. Brutus hastily judged that when he had made such a stir over the sting, the lizard was frightened and simply clambered away as fast as it could.


And yet, Brutus pondered the episode. He played it back in his mind. Certainly he was a fool for even thinking that the thing was friendly. The recollection of those eyes and that tongue began to make Brutus feel sick in the pit of his stomach. Especially that tongue. It was fascinating! Enthralling! But dreadful. Brutus shivered. It was a very, very dreadful thing, a scary thing, a thing of pitch black horror.


Brutus felt absolutely nauseous. The tongue was so beautiful and yet so repulsive at the same time. He knew deep in his heart that he was not a nice person. He knew that he cared little for anyone but himself. That never bothered him and didn’t bother him even at that moment. But this was as if he had an encounter with pure evil; as if the epitome of all that was contrary to good resided in that beast with the yellow-orange eyes and the slippery, whipping tongue. He had come face to face with it and was drawn to it.


Brutus became sick. He stepped away from the pool, fell to his knees and vomited. He hated himself. How could even he have given in to such wicked beauty? He held up his hand. In clear view, on the back of his hand, was the mark of that little beast.


Brutus’s mind began to thrash around with terrifying thoughts. What was the meaning of that mark, if it had any? He studied it closely. He could give no explanation, but there was a menacing thought that kept coming back to him; that the mark had somehow affected him, changed him, and would force the worst of all that he was to come out.


The presence of the mark was, as it were, a seal of ownership and possession, like the branding of a cow. Brutus firmly believed that the cursed creature had deceived him and laid claim to him by marking him exclusively for its own pleasure. And after it saw with satisfaction the pain it had caused, it deemed its work for the moment to be finished and simply left Brutus to ponder the consequences.


And yet, how absurd that notion was; a dumb cold-blooded animal purposely setting him apart, making him the target of an evil ambition. Brutus held up his hand once again. He feared that that stinging red mark would give him away, that he would have to conceal it or else he would be known truly for the foolish person he must be to allow such a ghastly thing to happen.


Reason. Common sense. Those words burst into Brutus’s mind like an explosion. He had to be reasonable. The red mark could be explained away. He had no reason to fear it or fear that anyone would be suspicious of it. It would be gone in a few days, a week or two at most. He was a fast healer. Many a bruise or scrape or burn had marked him, and they were all gone except for the faintest evidence of an unnoticeable scar or discoloration of the skin.


Brutus forced himself to be reasonable. The lizard was probably one that was commonly avoided and for good reason. This taught Brutus a lesson. Trust no one and no animal; trust no living creature. There was much about this world he had yet to learn. He had to guard himself not to be so careless.


Brutus shook himself as if from a trance. He took a deep breath. The frozen chill of the air was gone; the winter barrenness of the wood had returned to its summer plentitude, and the stinking pool now sloshed with crisp, clear water. He took another deep breath and held it for a few seconds before he let it out slowly.


He felt much better now and his mind was clearer. The pain in his hand was little more than a dull pinch. The more he thought about it the more it seemed to be a trivial matter after all. He hastily concluded that his imagination had run wild and exaggerated the whole encounter. He had to put this behind him. He probably wasted a good half-hour, and he wanted to make it to Puddle Bottom West before that last departure of the magnerail. He was going to have to get back on the trail and get moving again. Brutus took one last look at the pool before he turned and made his way back to the walking trail. It was getting late. There was no time to lose. With a new sense of purpose, Brutus pressed on. He must make it in time. He must...“or someone will pay for this,” he muttered.